The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) by Lance McMillian (primary phonics txt) 📗

no sense. I try to work out a scenario where what I think I remember would fit some logical possibility. I fail. You’re wrong, I tell myself. Either the wording wasn’t exactly as you now remember, or she didn’t say what you think she said—simple as that. Don’t tie yourself into knots over this imagined complication. Focus on your closing. Doubt is the enemy of faith.

I walk back to the desk, now ready to work. Then I see it. The scales fall from my eyes, and everything fits into place. The evidence before me cannot be written off as a false memory. I can now see nothing else. With one exception, I work out everything in roughly a minute. The one open question requires careful thought and massaging. I can’t do this alone. I need Scott.

I pick up the phone to call him, eager to get started on the weekend of work ahead of us. I then set the phone aside to mourn a little for myself. The thrill of the chase is no tonic for the pain of knowing that my lover is a murderer. All I have to do is prove it.

49

Monday morning arrives sooner than I would like. The task before me portends nothing but despair—bad medicine that no amount of drink will ever wash down. Scott and I did what needed doing over the weekend. What happens next rests in my hands alone.

Just before we enter the courtroom, I tell Ella, “I’m going to put Lara on the stand to rebut Barton, then we’ll go into closing.” She remains in the dark about what I know and doesn’t understand my reasoning. The pushback is fierce.

“We don’t need to put her on the stand. You destroyed Barton on cross.”

“I’m going to put her on.”

“She’s my witness. If we need her to deny it, I should be the one to ask it of her.”

“I’m doing it.”

“You’re dictating things all of a sudden? We had an agreement that I would handle her.”

“I’m doing it. That’s final. I have my reasons. Please trust me.”

“Well it damn sure doesn’t appear that you trust me.”

I avoided telling Ella over the weekend to sidestep this type of conversation. I lack the emotional capacity. After today, I intend to disappear for quite a long time. Ella enters the courtroom ahead of me in a huff. I follow her as if entering a torture chamber.

***

Before the judge enters, I take Lara to the side and explain, “I’m going to call you back up to the stand first thing this morning to refute Barton’s alibi. Just follow my lead and answer the questions. You’ll do fine.”

“I wish I had more notice.”

“You’ll do fine. Just follow my lead.”

Lara remains uncertain but takes her seat. The judge enters and calls the room to order. Woodcomb turns the floor over to me, and I recall our star witness to the stand. As she makes her way up front, I scribble a quick note to Ella. The note says, “I’m sorry.” She reads it and looks at me with austere neutrality. I stand up, knowing that my life will never be the same.

“Ms. Landrum, you were in court Friday afternoon when the defendant, Bernard Barton, testified that he was with you on the night of your sister’s murder. How would you respond to that?”

“It’s a lie.”

“Have you ever had a sexual relationship with the defendant?”

“Absolutely not.”

The answer is delivered with the perfect note of indignation—not too much, not too little. She’s very good. The room eats it up.

“Is it possible that the defendant mistook your sister for you?”

The snark oozes. Millwood objects, the witness looks confused, and the courtroom snickers. I withdraw the question and begin again.

“Let me rephrase that last question. To your knowledge, has the defendant ever mistaken you for your sister?”

I give her a slight nod for assurance. The tightrope I’m walking will give way at any moment. I need her to think we’re on the same team for as long as the pretense can last.

“No, he can tell us apart.”

“Was your sister ever arrested?”

“Yes. For DUI. A long time ago.”

The abrupt change of pace unsettles the air. I grab a sheaf of documents and show them to Millwood. He looks at them and looks at me, frowning before handing me back the papers. Barton whispers something to him, but Millwood waves him away with his hand, instead eyeing me intently. I approach the witness.

“Ms. Landrum, I’m handing you the arrest file for your sister’s DUI. Have you ever seen it before?”

“No.”

“And is that your sister in this mugshot?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

I collect the documents and walk back to lay them on counsel’s table. Ella pens a note on a legal pad and pushes it toward me: “What are you doing????” The composure in her face masks the uncertainty in her heart. I nod. The gesture is meaningless in the context of her question. Her eyes narrow. Silence fills the courtroom. I stumble along, content to portray an aura of incompetence. The jury is irrelevant. My performance is for a more limited audience.

“The defendant also denied ever hitting your sister. How do you respond to that?”

“He hit her. I saw the bruises on her back with my own two eyes.”

The answer is comfortable, confident—the product of her being on surer ground. She glares at Barton for emphasis. I study the both of them, trying to decipher the one piece of the puzzle that still escapes me. The analysis doesn’t bear any fresh insight. I shuffle along and laboriously set up two easels adjacent to each other. I leave the easels empty and redirect my attention to the witness.

“Have you ever seen the defendant hit your sister?”

She hesitates. I walk toward the wall where I retrieve two enlarged photographs. The witness follows my movements with great interest. My eyes look expectantly toward her for an answer. I then start the cumbersome task of carrying my jumbo-sized photographs back across the courtroom.

“He wouldn’t have dared to hit